The Wretched
by Mme. Patria
Summary: Sections of the novel told through the perspectives of another character, or rewritten. Enjolras harasses Grantaire, Gavroche harasses Cosette, Marius harasses the Les Amis, and maybe Javert's fictional girfriend will harass him (at some point). Just basically a whole lot of harassing. Trying to keep this as un-depressing as possible guys! But there are some sad, dark moments :(
1. Grantaire, Put the Bottle Down!

**I am not Victor Hugo. If I was, Grantaire would've kicked Enjolras where it hurts by now. Hard.**

**Grantaire, Put the Bottle Down! **

_"Reality is merely an illusion – _

_Caused by lack of alcohol…" _

- An old pun

**"****_Qual piuma al vento/Muta d'accento — e di pensiero…_****" **

That was the call that woke Enjolras up in the morning.

He'd been sleeping on the mattress Combeferre had propped up at the base of the barricade a few weeks ago, and would probably sleep there tonight.

_"Enj", _'Ferre had said as he laid the mattress down for him, "_Why don't you just sleep in the café with the rest of us?" _

_"No this is fine." _

'Ferre smiled sadly at him. _"There's no shame in wanting a decent night's sleep, Enj. It'd made you a better leader in the daytime. Why don't you just-"_

_"Really, 'Ferre. I'm fine."_

_"You're sure?" _

_"Sure, what better than sleeping under the stars?" _

_"Yeah", _'Ferre had replied sarcastically, _"If it weren't for all the grape-shots and canon balls." _

_"I'm fine. Really. It's too stuffy in there – especially with all Capital R's drinking." _

_"You really shouldn't be so hard on him." _

_"What other way is there to keep him in line?" _

_"You could try talking to him?" _

Enjolras had smiled as he plonked down on the mattress, pulling the thin quilt over him and rolling over.

_"That would require being able to understand him." _

_"Huh?" _

He'd smiled indulgently. _"Drunk men are confusing, 'Ferre. Capital R is another language." _

'Ferre had smiled. _"Fine then. But you rest easy. Alright?" _

_"Goodnight cousin." _

_"Night Enj." _

He wasn't feeling in such good spirits when he'd been woken in the morning by the cry of: "La Donna E Mobile!_"_*****

He'd dragged himself off the mattress and gone round the back to get changed into his vest.

It hadn't stopped since. 

**"****_Sempre un amabile/Leggiadro viso_****", Grantaire sung as he danced around the Café Musain to the amusement of the other Les Amis, "****_In pianto o in riso, — è menzognero/È sempre misero/Chi a lei s'affida…_****"  
**Enjolras attempted to block his ears and clean his weapons at the same time. But it didn't work.

"_Chi le confida — mal cauto il cuore-_" Just as the leader was preparing to shout _shut up _someone beat him to it.

"Will you quit that racket?!" Matelote demanded.  
Grantaire clapped happily at her arrival.

"Celestine, you are a beautiful monster! Welcome to my lair!"

Enjolras watched Grantaire spout some more rubbish, grabbing the grisette around the waist as he did so and spinning her around the room.

"She is a chimera! A daemon! The offspring of a stonemason from Notre Dame who fell in love with one of his gargoyles!"

Enjolras sighed, rubbing his eyes.

_What next? Dante's _Inferno_? Or are you going to adlib some Milton? _

"I'm telling you 'Ferre! We need Celly on our barricade! She is a pig! She fights like on and she _eats like one! _A beautiful collaboration!"

_How did I meet him again?_ He thought to himself dully and then, with an elegant shrug of his shoulders added sarcastically, _Oh yeah. I met him when he crashed my Les Amis meeting and "charmed" me with his witty repartee._

It reality, Grantaire had begged to stay and sit in on the meeting – which Enjolras had allowed, seeing as he believed in _nothing _and thus wouldn't blab to the National Guard. Grantaire had then, somehow and successfully, managed to get Enjolras completely tanked, and had in one way or another managed to force Enjolras to let him sign some application sheet deeming him an official member of the Les Amis de L'ABC.

Like Faust signing over his soul to the devil, more like. The devil being Grantaire, of course.

At least, that's how Enjolras remembered it. 

The sound of Grantaire dancing around the Café Musain with Matelote on his shoulders dragged the revolutionary back to reality.

"Get your hands off me, Wine-Cask", Matelote exclaimed, giving Grantaire a few sharp smacks.

Enjolras, who had been rather happily standing sentry on the barricade the last half hour, turned his stern face to look meet Grantaire's eye. The angry look made Grantaire drop Matelote to the ground in an instant, cheeks red like a frightened schoolboy.

"Grantaire, put the bottle down!" he yelled from down below, "Go and sober up somewhere else! The National Guard are sniggering at us!"

And it was true.

A few artillery men were standing down the road and every so often would look up at either Grantaire's silly antics or Enjolras' inflexibility and chuckle to themselves. Right now they were betting on whether or not the leader would loose it and have a full on shouting match with the drunk – steam coming out the ears and all.

_Yeah, well, one side is loosing their money today, _he thought to himself bitterly.

"But-" the drunk began fearfully, and it was that fear that made Enjolras glow a little inside.

"Don't disgrace the revolution!"

This final outburst – as Enjolras hoped it would – produced a single, startling effect on Grantaire.

He looked down at his shoes a few times, mumbled a sincere apology to Matelote and then looked to his leader – completely sober, as if someone had dunked his head in a bucket of icy water.

Enjolras crossed his arms impatiently as Grantaire shuffled to the window and sat down carefully on an upturned wine barrel, placing his elbows on the windowsill.

With a sad look he said, "I am truly sorry sir. I beg your apology."

Enjolras raised a critical eyebrow.

"You do not have it, Capital R."

"Please. If you won't permit me awake, could you very kindly please permit me to sleep here – until I'm sober enough to handle a gun, sir."

Enjolras was a tiny bit taken aback by Grantaire's solemn face, but recovered quickly and thought to himself, _like I'd ever give you a gun. _He instead glared at him sharply.

"No! Go and sleep somewhere else! This is a barricade, not a drunk tank!"

But Grantaire, still keeping a set of troubled, fond eyes fixed on Enjolras, said, "_Please _let me sleep here. In the café. If not until I'm sober than at least until I die."

"What could you _possibly _die of in the café, Capital R?" Joly, who was sitting in the loft, drawled.

"Absinthe poisoning", 'Ferre murmured from a table across the room, and earned a row of laughs from Joly and Feuilly.

Enjolras looked down at the ground, so as not to reveal the tiny quirk at the corner of his lips.

When he looked up, he saw the others staring at him expectantly, and Grantaire on the verge of a nervous breakdown due to embarrassment and shame. The drunk tried anxiously to stammer out another apology, but failed miserably and stared at Enjolras with a hopeless look.

"Go home Grantaire", Enjolras said in a softer tone of voice, feeling that he'd humiliated the drunk enough for one day. He waved him away smoothly and started, turning back to the barricade.

"Please. Let me sleep here – and die. Here. Please?" Grantaire asked gently.

A laugh sounded across the barricade at the drunk's earnestness and Enjolras joined in coldly. Then, deciding he was sick of Grantaire, regarded him with cruel, disdainful eyes and said.

"Grantaire. You're incapable of believing, thinking, willing, living and – I suspect – of dying. You are a drunk Mephistopheles."

Grantaire opened his mouth to argue.

_For god's sakes! _

"Go home!" Enjolras snapped, "You're not wanted here!"

"But-" he really was on the verge of tears now. Enjolras knew he was being unnecessarily – _uncharacteristically, _even – vindictive. But he'd had a long day and really couldn't be bothered putting up with the drunk, on top of that Bonapartist Marius Pontmercy and the lack of ammunition… And besides, pitiless, brutal, terrible, evil, cold, spiteful – weren't they the words everyone in Paris associated his name with?

"_Incapable_", Enjolras repeated, "You are _incapable_." At everything. Even drinking, seeing as he couldn't even handle the hangovers.

Suddenly, the drunk's face twisted into an angry glare.

"I believe in _you_", Grantaire pointed out sharply, "That's capability, is it not?"

Enjolras waited in stunned silence.

The drunk had never lashed out at him like that before.

He felt rather like he'd been torturing a little puppy for a few minutes and had suddenly and viciously been bitten on the hand.

_A drunk, cynical puppy who curses articulately and carries a pocket book of Shakespeare. _

"I rather think it is", Grantaire continued, looking to the other Les Amis, who stepped back a few metres, not wanting to become part of the conflict.

"Because sometimes – god damn it – I find it hard to believe you even know what you're doing!"

"Capital R…" 'Ferre warned, laying a hand on Grantaire's shoulder.

The drunk shrugged it off angrily.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes, his lip twisting in anger.

"… What's that supposed to mean?"

"You. You're just a little boy dressed up in his father's uniform!"

A silence fell over the Café Musain like a cold gust of wind, and it seemed that Grantaire was about ready to kill Enjolras.

_Not that _I _haven't thought about killing _him _before, that is. _

A pause.

Enjolras smiled half heartedly at Grantaire and saw him deflate.

_I win. _

At the indulgent, bright smile, the tension in the Café Musain immediately dispersed, and Enjolras let his shoulders slump.

_If only everything were that easy. _

"Go home Grantaire", he murmured and then, very quietly, "_Incapable._"

To that, Grantaire replied in a grave voice, "You will see, Monsieur. You will see."

With that he shouted something unintelligible about purple monkeys and flying teapots, attempted to wink at Enjolras – to which the leader gave an exasperated sigh –, gave Matelote's behind a feel as she walked past and then slammed his head down on the windowsill with a metallic _CRACK! _

Enjolras allowed himself a grumpy face palm and then watched calmly as Courfeyrac walked over and gave the drunk a kick.

Grantaire only responded with a sleepy grumble. Something along the lines of: _Incapable. I'll show you incapable. POW! SLAP! SHIZAM! _

Courfeyrac turned to Enjolras with a helpless look.

"I think you really messed him up good this time sir", he pointed out, "He's out cold."

Enjolras nodded. "No surprises there."

"On which point?" Joly called.

He sighed. _Both of them. _

"Do you want me to try and wake him up?" asked Courfeyrac.

He sighed and turned back to the bayonet he'd been polishing with his vest. "No."

_It's no use. _

He looked at the knife with a smile, watching it glint silver bright in the sun.

It never was.

**The song ****_La Donna E Mobile _****was composed in the 1850tees, not 1830tees – so it shouldn't exist. I just thought it'd be funny (my reasoning is so logical, eh?) **


	2. The Angel and the Gamit

**I don't own **_**Les Misérables. **_**If I did, I would've written a sequel where somehow all the dead Barricade Boys rise from the grave to wreck ultra-violent-**_**Do-You-Hear-The-People-Sing?**_**-big-ass-red-flag-**_**I-Am-Legend**_**-zombie-havoc in 21****st**** century Paris.**

_**Merci! **_**And enjoy: **

**The Angel and the Gamin**

_"But death, fires, and burglary, make all men equals..."_

- From Charles Dickens' **Oliver Twist**

"**You look lost." **

Cosette looked up with a tiny gasp and frowned as she was met by empty air.

"Down here."

"Oh", she looked down and felt her face light up with a bright smile.

There was a little boy standing at her feet. Probably no more than ten and two years old and cute as a button.

Cosette had been walking through the Bois de Bolougne; just walking around enjoying the plants – and the thought of seeing Marius Pontmercy again – when she'd been stopped in her tracks by the little boy.

"Why, bonjour Monsieur", she laughed, bending down to look at the boy.

"You look lost." The boy repeated.

Cosette frowned. She _had_ been a little lost – that was true – and she _had _been looking for a way out of the park.

"Well… I suppose I'm a _little _lost", she admitted.

The boy perked up. "Never mind. Gavroche will help you Mam'selle."

She felt her brow crinkle again. _Gavroche… Now why does that name sound so familiar? _

"Alright… _Gavroche_", she tested the name out, "My name's Cosette."

The boy offered her a shallow bow.

"I know who you are Mam'selle. You're Marius Pontmercy's girlfriend."

Cosette felt her cheeks heat up. _Girlfriend? Is that the right word? _But then she immediately went pale again.

"How did you know that?"

"Gavroche has his ways Mam'selle."

Cosette looked around worriedly.  
She was all alone.

_What's the matter with you Cosette? He's… what… twelve years old? You're, like, eighteen. Pull yourself together. _

"Okay. Well, I best be getting back home."

"The Rue Plumet?"

"Yes. How did you-"

"Gavroche has his ways Mam'selle."

"Can you please stop calling me that?"

"Calling you what Mam'selle?"

"_That. _"Mam'selle." It's annoying."

"What do I call you instead then?"

"Just _Cosette _is fine. Alright?"

"As rain."

Cosette looked around worriedly. Her father _would _be missing her by now – she'd been out all day without telling him where she was going. And on top of her moonlit escapade with Marius the other night… She'd be lucky if she wasn't put on house arrest for the rest of her life.

She sighed at the little blonde boy.

"Alright. You lead the way."

The boy stayed put, arms crossed with a smug smile on his face.

Cosette took a small step forward but he blocked her way.

She flicked her hair over her shoulder in annoyance and narrowed her blue eyes.

"What's your problem?"

"You need to pay."

"Huh?"

"You need to pay if you want me to show you the way home."

"But you offered!" she exclaimed, "I'm not paying you – y-you offered!"

"Every shopkeeper does it, _Cosette_, so why shouldn't I?"

Cosette crossed her arms.

"What if I don't want your help?"

"Then you'll pay two sous to get past me."

"What if I don't want to pay?"

He smiled sweetly and, before Cosette could react, two little hands had reached into the pockets of her dress and pulled out her coin purse.

She cried out upon finding two more boys behind her.

"What _on earth_-"

"Meet my two friends", Gavroche smiled sweetly at Cosette as the boys riffled through her purse, "They don't have any names but… they're quite handy."

"You're a burglar!"

"An acquirer, Mam'selle."

Cosette looked around the park and then, very quickly, leapt forward and grabbed Gavroche by his lapels.

The boy lashed out at her, failed miserably and stared up at Cosette in shock.

"You're pretty strong for a girl!"

"I know who you are!" Cosette exclaimed, "You're that street urchin Marius told me about! The one who sleeps in the Bastille elephant!"

Gavroche nodded silently, joined by the two boys.

The taller one handed back Cosette's wallet with a shamed look and she snatched it, stuffing it into her pocket angrily.

"Please don't report us Mademoiselle Cosette", the smaller, chubbier one pleaded, "We were only following his orders."

"You-" Gavroche began angrily, but was cut off by Cosette, "Go on, runaway."

The two boys took of their caps, bowed to Cosette and ran to the edge of the park like the devil was licking at their heels.

Cosette turned to Gavroche.

"You're part of the Les Amis, aren't you?"

"You could say that, yes."

And then, after some thought, "Are you going to report me?"

Cosette looked around the park anxiously and then turned to Gavroche.

"How old are you?"

"Eight-years-old Cosette."

"You look older."

He didn't say anything, but looked down at his weather-beaten shoes with a sad look.

Cosette sighed exasperatedly. "Okay. I'll give you your two sous", she explained, "But you have to let me walk you back to the Café Musain – to see Marius Pontmercy."

Gavroche nodded hurriedly. "_Merci, _Cosette, _merci, merci, merci-_"

Cosette grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck again and set off down the path.

"And if you think I'm not telling that Enjolras man about this then you are _sorely _mistaken."

**It should be well noted that no **_**women **_**were allowed in the back room of the Café Musain – save for Louison, the waitress, and every so often Matelote and Gibelotte – so it was some small wonder that Cosette managed to gain access to that long corridor. **

Well, not really a _wonder. _With Jehan guarding the door all it took was a quick bat of her eyelashes and a flick of her blonde hair and she was through, with a meek faced Gavroche trailing behind her.

It would have been a strange sight – the girl, delicate, tall and proud, with the eponymous, scruffy, take-no-crap street urchin trailing behind her like a mistreated kitten.

The corridor – it should also be noted – was very long, and very bare – with no paintings or doorways. And with the light shining through the door at the end, Cosette imagined that she and Gavroche had died and that she was walking down that dark tunnel.

Of course, when she knocked on the door and it was opened, she was not met by the golden gates of heaven, but rather by eight confused men staring back at her in worry.

The backroom was tiny – barely larger than her bedroom at the Rue Plumet – with four tables in all, and about three chairs at each circular table.

It was lit by candlelight, and the air just below the wood-panelled ceiling was hazy with tobacco smoke.

She stood there for a long time, Gavroche peeking out from behind her blue dress, until someone – she supposed it must be that dandy Bahorel – reacted.

"Mademoiselle", he took of his beret.

Cosette sighed and stepped into the room, trying not to cough at the cigarette smoke.

"I'm here…" she held back a sneeze, "to speak to a Monsieur Enjolras."

The Les Amis exchanged surprised looks and then, after a pause, erupted into cheers.

A man – withered and completely bald – stood up and shook Cosette's hand vigorously.

"You must me this fabled Mademoiselle Patria our Enjolras keeps murmuring about!" he exclaimed and then, to the others, "He has finally found himself a wife!"

_Patria? _Cosette thought to herself and then, realisation dawning on her face.

"No! No. No! I'm… I'm not Patria… my name's Cosette!"

"Oh."

The excitement in the room ground to a halt.

"I keep telling you", an extremely drunk man drawled, "She's a _metaphor. _Patria is a _damn sexy metaphor_."

"A metaphor for what?" exclaimed a long haired man.

"For me!" the drunk cried, then slipped to the floor laughing hysterically.

A tall man in a ridiculous top hat threw a paper back novel at the drunk.  
"Put a cork in it Capital R!"

Cosette cleared her throat and the Les Amis silenced themselves.

She pushed Gavroche in front of her. "I have this child."

"Little Gavroche!" the drunk man cried from the floor, collapsing into more giggles.

Cosette nodded indulgently. "He tried to rob me."

"_Gavroche_", groaned the dandy, "Not again! Why? Every day it's another girl!"

The boy looked down at his shoes in shame.

"I'm here to return him to his master."

"Are you Apollo's sizzzter?" the drunk man lisped.

"That would make her Artemis, Capital R", the long haired man offered.

The drunk looked at Cosette. "Izzz your name Artemizzz?"

"No! I'm Cosette! _Please_. I just want to return the gamin to Enjolras, say hello to Marius and leave." She winced, wishing she hadn't let that slip.

"You're the Bonapartist's girlfriend!" came the chorusing cry.

"Yes!" Cosette exclaimed, "Now where is Enjolras?"

"Belladonna! Amore! Amore!" cried the drunk man.

"I'm so happy for you", said the bald man, shaking Cosette's hand for the second time since she'd come to the café.

"Belladonna! Belladonna! Bella-"

"Where is Enjolras?!" she yelled over the top of them all.

"I'm here."

All activity in the backroom ground to a halt, and Cosette actually _felt _the air get colder, like a draft had just blown in.

Standing silhouetted in the door was the young man Cosette supposed was Enjolras.

He stood there for a few moments in silence and then looked to her, blue eyes flashing.

"Why is there a girl in my backroom?" he demanded, the question directed at the dandy.

"She-" he began, but was beaten to the punch by the drunk guy, "Artemis! Artemis! Artemis!"

Enjolras sighed at the drunk, "She's not my sister."

"Artemis! Artemis-"  
"Would you put a sock in it?!"

"Artemis", he whispered a few more times, then passed out.

Enjolras turned back to Cosette.

"Why are you here little girl?"

"Uhm… I… uh…" she stammered, looking down at the ground like Gavroche, "the… uh…um… kid… Gavroche he… uhm… robbed… _tried to_… uh… rob… me and I… uh… um… um… brought him back… uh… here… to… uhm… you."

Enjolras sighed deeply and looked down at Gavroche.

"You robbed her?"

"Oui."

"Do you think that was a good idea?"

"No."

"Do you think you should apologise?"

Gavroche turned to the girl and murmured very quietly, "I'm sorry."

"Like you mean it", Enjolras growled.

"I'm terribly sorry Mademoiselle Cosette."

"For _what?_" Enjolras said, giving the boy a kick.

"For trying to steal your purse", he mumbled, "And tricking you into giving me your sous."

"Give them back to her." Enjolras snarled.

The boy cringed away from the leader and dug around quickly in his pockets, pushing the coins into Cosette's hands.

"Say thank-you to Cosette that she didn't report you."

"Thank you Mam'selle Cosette for not reporting me to the bobbies."

"Bow."

The boy bowed very low and then slunk from the room, feet dragging behind him.

Cosette looked from Gavroche to Enjolras and back several times in shock.

_What… the… _hell_? _

"Was there anything else?" the man asked.

Cosette nodded, "Uhm… Monsieur Pontmercy?"

Enjolras walked into the room, threw of his jacket and plonked down onto a chair beside the bald man. He pulled out a newspaper.

"He's out."


	3. Hell on Earth

**I don't own **_**Les Misérables**_**. If I did, the Barricade Boys would be equipped with laser guns and mech-suits, Javert would be a cyborg, JVJ would have telekinesis and Fantine would be an alien. **

**Enjoy. **

**Hell on Earth**

_"With impetuous recoil and jarring sound_  
_Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate_  
_Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook_  
_Of Erebus. She opened, but to shut_  
_Excelled her power; the gates wide open stood…" _

_- From John Milton's __**Paradise Lost**_

**The night the barricades fell was the closest thing R. Grantaire had ever come to a living hell on earth. **

"Hold your fire…"

He supposed he hated the waiting more than the actual battle. The waiting was more painful than any injury he'd been given by the National Guard – and there were many.

He sat low at the base of their little wall, wedged between Joly and Courfeyrac. The gun in his hand felt as heavy as the grand piano he'd helped throw onto the pile the previous day. Bahorel, Bossuetand Feuilly were further along, near the alley leading round the back of the Café, that Bonapartist was in the centre of the barricade at the base, swivelling his blunderbuss like a maniac, and Combeferre was waiting on the rooftop… He didn't know where Enjolras had disappeared to, and he didn't like the sense of heavy foreboding that followed his absence.

"Ready…" the call was close by – the call was their leader's. Grantaire looked around in apprehension.

_Where is he? Where _is _he? _

"FIRE!"

Then all hell rose up.

Any thoughts the drunk had had of the blonde man, or the National Guard, or his gun, were quickly blown away in the fiery inferno of chaos and bloodshed.

He'd retreated into the Café Musain after the first grape-shots sounded, for they were not grape-shots – they were thunder and lightening.

The last swaying, drunken image he saw before he slammed Musain's front door was the dark night closing in, and the air grey with smoke and gunpowder, lit every few moments by the flares of the Les Amis' shot guns. The other side were not human – in contrast to the terribly real boys before him –, no, the other side were monstrous, shadowy spiders creeping from the flames and, as Enjolras and his boys shot down one row, another soon replaced it.

They swarmed in. Like sharks to fresh blood.

The image that stuck in his mind though, – the image that inspired dread in the pit of his absinthe bruised stomach – was what he saw through the door's glass window. A flash of blonde hair – barely enough to constitute as a flicker – and a glimpse of a red vest… Somewhere…

He narrowed his eyes and squinted out into the darkness, onto the barricade…

_Sweet Jesus… Oh no… Oh… _no…

He spun around, slipping to the ground with his back against the door, breathing heavily. _No, no, no, no, Apollo what the hell are you thinking?! No, no, no… _

He rocked back and forth slowly, cradling his head in his hands.

_Apollo. No, no – _

"Monsieur Grantaire?"

He looked up abruptly with a loud growl, fists raised. He lowered them with a sigh to find Louison standing before him, hands on hips. "What are you doing in _here?_" she demanded and then, jabbing a finger at the door, "Get back out there you great bloody coward."

Grantaire stared at her in disbelief, then looked down at his hands – which were less than stable to hold a gun right then.

"Don't give me that sorry look Capital R", she exclaimed, "Those boys are out there dying to save their country and you've probably come in here to get tanked. Eh?"

"No, no, no, no, no", he muttered under his breath, "Bad, bad, _bad_."

Louison frowned at him. "What's the matter with you?"

Grantaire looked up at her in horror, eyes wide. "Apollo", he stammered.

"Huh?"

"Apollo… gun… barricade…"

"Are you _drunk?_"

He cleared his head quickly.

"Enjolras. _Enjolras_." He looked down at his shaking hands again and then back up at Louison. "He's on top of the barricade."

"He's _where?!_"

"Please. Lou. Get someone to grab him. He's not right in the head."

"He'll be a little more than _not right in the head _soon", she muttered.

"Exactly", Grantaire sighed, "So please help."

Louison peered over his shoulder at the door's window.

"So… you want _me_", she pointed to herself, "to go out _there_", she pointed to the door and then, pointing to where Grantaire knew their leader was stationed, "to save your girlfriend's pretty ass?"

"Yes! … No! No! Yes. Sort of. I dunno. He can't die. Or we're damned. So please go and grab 'Ferre. Or than Marius Pontmercy. Bring him down safely or god damn it he'll get himself killed." He paused, looking at Louison's stunned eyes, and tensed, standing up and walking towards her determinedly. He took her by the shoulders and shook her slightly. "He _cannot _die, Lou. It is _imperative _that he survives." _If he _does not _we are all _screwed.

Louison was still very pale, staring off into space in dull confusion.

He shook her a little more roughly.

"_Lou!_"

She seemed to snap herself out of it and sighed sharply, rolling her sleeves up and pushing past him.

"Alright lover boy, keep your shoes on", she muttered over her shoulder.  
Grantaire opened his mouth to argue, but she was already gone, the door's bell tinkling behind her.

Grantaire paused for a long moment until he was sure she was gone and then, creeping up to the window, he peaked through the glass worriedly.

Yes, there the twit was. Standing right in the middle of the barricade in clear line of fire, two guns in either hand and his freaking bandana streaked with blood. Hopefully not his.  
Grantaire heard a shot fly past and winced, hoping it hadn't hit him.

No. He was good.

He was firing back.

And yelling. A lot. Stuff along the lines of: "Vive la France!" and "Down with the King!"

The other side responded with more gunfire… which induced more yelling… which induced more gunfire.

_Get. Down. From. There. You. _Idiot_._

He ran a hand through his hair a few times manically, and then turned round with a decided air and made for the stairs.

If he was going to die, he was going to die doing the three things he enjoyed most of all.

Letting other people do all the work.

Watching Enjolras make a dramatic ass of himself.

And, of course, drinking.

"Lover boy." He grumbled under his breath, "Freaking waitresses… lover boy… right in the head… girlfriend… drunk… blah, blah, blah…"

**Upstairs was none the more different from downstairs and, as Grantaire surveyed the smashed tables, broken chairs and ripped up floorboards, he couldn't suppress a sad sigh. **

A few grape-shots and bullets had smashed the windows, and he could see a few burnt out cocktail explosives lying cracked on the floor, but save for that and the rest of the damage the room seemed relatively safe.

He walked in, stretched, yawned and made his way towards the window.

"_Si Cesar m'avait donne la glorie et guerre_", he sang, taking a long swig of rhum and swaying on his feet, _"Et qu'il me fallait quitter l'amour de ma mere/Je dirais au grand Caesar: Reprends ton sceptre et ton char/J'aim mieux ma mere o gue!_"

He looked down at the battleground below him – and at a certain red vested revolutionary who _still _stood atop the barricade – and sighed sadly.

"_J'aim mieux ma mere_-" He did not get to finish as, before he could avert his eyes, a great flare went up across the scene below and he cried out, turning away.

_Canons… a canon-ball must have hit the… Oh my god a canon ball must have hit the powder kegs! _

He looked down in horror at the fire raging across the barricade and felt an angry tick to see not only Enjolras but now _'Ferre _and _Courfeyrac _helping atop the wall _as well. _

Another flare sounded and he turned away a second time, covering his mouth as a strangled, terrified sob escaped him.

Once he was sure he wouldn't have another conniption he took another long pull on his bottle and stumbled back across the room, plonking down on one of the unbroken chairs in the corner, behind the open door.

"_L'oiseau medit dans les charmilles/En pretend qu'hier Atala avec un Russe…" _

A third flare lit up outside and he raised his voice, "EN PRETEND QU'HIER ATALA AVEC UN RUSSE-"

He broke away abruptly as gut wrenching sobs shook his frame and collapsed, head in hands on the table.

He was having a panic attack.

He knew that much.

It wasn't uncommon during a battle.

He'd seen brave men – men he knew – vomit in fear at the sight of the enemy and good kids – like Feuilly and even Jehan, before he died – turned savage by the smell of blood.

_What if I'm the only one left? _

He tried to regulate his breathing – he had to keep it under control or he'd throw up – and raised his head from the table, shoulders heaving up and down.

_I can't be the only one, _he thought to himself, _There are other barricades – Apollo said himself. _

But then that conversation he'd overheard Bossuetand Enjolras having the other day – which seemed like a long time ago – come back to him with haunting, ominous clarity.

"_Things are going alright now", _Bossuethad said, _"Were a success!" _

To that the younger man had murmured very quietly, _"Another quarter hour of this success and we'll be dead meat." _

Grantaire had frowned from his hiding spot slumped under a mattress they'd propped up the previous day.

"_What do you mean by that?" _asked Bossut.

"_We do not have any more cartridges."_

"_I can easily send Marius and 'Ferre out to fetch some." _

The blonde man had laughed mirthlessly.

"_That would do no good, my friend." _

"_What's that supposed to mean?" _

Enjolras gave the other side a weary – but not at all fearful – look and turned back to the bald man. _"We are the only ones left Bossut."_

"_Huh?" _

"_The people of Paris are only just waking up and we are the only barricade left attended. No one is fighting to save us. We are _the last _barricade." _

"_Surely not, surely-"_

"_They have abandoned me in my hour of need, dear Bossut. We are alone." _

The bald man shifted nervously, his head swivelling around from side to side.

"_Have you told anyone else?" _

"_What do you mean?" _

"_Have you told the other Les Amis? Joly? Courfeyrac? Capital R-"_

He was cut off again by Enjolras' laugh, though it seemed crueller to Grantaire's ears.

"_Capital R? This is Grantaire we're talking about right? A drinker is a babbler, dear Bossut. I'd be surprised if he didn't scream the news to The Guard from atop our barricade, waving a big red flag with the words "pas de cartouches" _in big capital letters."

For Bossut's credit, he didn't laugh quite as hard as Enjolras.

"_Fair enough. But have you told anyone else?" _

"_No. You are the only one I have told because I trust you not to tell." _

"_I won't. But shouldn't _you _at least tell them? Don't you think that would make it better?" _

Enjolras' eyes had then – with impossible speed – swivelled over to the mattress Grantaire was slumped under, a bottle of absinthe in hand. From underneath half closed eyelids Grantaire watched fearfully as their leader's own blue pair searched him with suspicion, narrowed ever so slightly. The man then, not taking his eyes of the drunk, had said to Bossut, "No. No I do not."

It appeared that little Gavroche had overheard this remark…

At that last nip Grantaire rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes viciously, trying to keep his weeping under control.

_We can't be the only ones left. There has to be others. One barricade that Apollo overlooked. Please god, one barricade… One barricade… _But even as he thought this, the silence outside contradicted him.

No gunfire save for the distant _FLACK _of the other side's.

_They're conserving their bullets. _

Silence.

_Come on Apollo. Your time to shine. _

He was met with a similar result.

Just as he was about to give up, their came a cry and he sat up rigid, hoping for the best. He was met by a rather different call.

"THERE ARE MORE SOLDIERS UNDERNEATH US!"

"THEY'RE UNDERNEATH THE BARRICADE!"

"SHOOT! SHOOT! SHOOT!"

And then, rising above it all was Enjolras' hoarse voice, "KILL THEM! KILL THEM ALL! SHOOT THEM WHERE THEY STAND AND _TAKE NO PRISONERS!" _

An uproar of assent swept across the barricade. "VIVE LA RÈVOLUTION!"

Grantaire covered his mouth in shock.

_There are no cartridges… What the hell is he thinking?!_

_FLACK! FLACK! FLACK! _The sound of heavy gunfire.

_Great. _

He took a fifth… sixth… he wasn't sure, but he took another swig of his rhum and watched the room sway around him insanely, like some kind of pipe dream.

"_Damn _it", he snarled, throwing the bottle across the room and watching it smash against the wall with a thrumming echo. "Damn it down to hell." He mumbled a few more unintelligible words and then fell face flat on the table.

Out cold. 


	4. Ultimate Republican Smackdown!

**I'm working on another story at home (girl possessed by dead German soldier, has relationship problems, late assignment at boarding school, blah, blah, blah) and have MASSIVE writers block. So I thought I'd just wind down a little by writing some silly drabble for my Les Misérables series. **

**Let's keep this perfectly clear: There is never a point in Victor Hugo's amazing, heart wrenching, extravagant, thought provoking, ridiculously long novel in which – respectfully – the great student leader Enjolras, his best friend Combeferre, tragically unlucky Bossuet and unaccepted Pylades Grantaire… take a foot bath together. **

**Enjoy. **

**ULTIMATE REPUBLICAN SMACKDOWN! **

**Marius Pontmercy **_**versus **_**a Bunch of College Boys (one of them fasting, the other drunk of his head)**

**WHO WILL WIN?! **

"_Today was a beautiful day…_

_Then you showed up." _

- Another old pun

Enjolras, Combferre, Bossuet and Grantaire were seated on the couch in the backroom of the Café Musain… Perfectly peaceful. For once.

'Ferre sighed deeply through his nose and lent his head back against the wall.

"Isn't this just heaven?" he breathed, gesturing to the tubs of steaming water the four men had their feet resting in.

"Mm-hmm", Enjolras agreed, head lolling back so far he could have been asleep.

Grantaire – there is no need to say so – was drunk of his head, and snoring loudly. Every now and then the apparently _extremely _intoxicating dream he was having would cause him to twitch, the warm water in the tub sloshing loudly.

Apart from that, everything was calm.

Jehan was in the corner silently reading, Bahorel was feeding sticks into the fire on the hearth, Feuilly was adding the finishing touches onto one of his fans, and Joly was examining his tongue in the corner with a small handheld mirror. The latter was wrapped in a ridiculously vibrant scarf in the colours of the French flag, and 'Ferre had spent the last few minutes absorbed in trying to count the stitches in it's hemming.

It was Winter in Paris, and the only sound in the Café Musain was the slow _TICK TICK TOCK _of the grandfather clock in the corner.

"Enj… can we just stay here forever?" Bossuet pleaded, "I'm sure the rest of Paris wouldn't mind."

Enjolras shook his head sleepily, making a sound that resembled a kitten being kicked in the stomach.

"No… water… would get… cold", he mumbled.

"_Please?_" 'Ferre asked, "Revolution is…" he stifled a yawn, "_terribly _tiresome."

Enjolras shook his head again, but only succeeded in making it flop to one side, Adam's apple bulging. "_Hate _cold bathwater."

"'S bit hard for it to go cold when you're in contact with it, Apollllllllo."

Grantaire had apparently arisen.

"Why is it you always make", Bossuet spoke over his yawn, "suggestive comments when you're drunk?"

_Right. Because sometimes he _isn't _drunk, _'Ferre thought to himself dully.

"Because… My filter's broken."

"Filter?"

"Between my mouth 'n my brain."

"Ah."

The men sat in silence for a long while, smiling brightly and a little insanely.

After a moment Grantaire said, "Right. Well I'm not nearly drunk enough."

"Oh my god! Really?!" 'Ferre exclaimed in mock horror.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and reached down the side of the couch and somehow magically produced a sack full of clinking wine bottles from thin air.

He handed them out carefully, then extended one towards Enjolras, eyes raised.

"I don't drink."

"That's why you're no fun. Take it."

"I want a rebellion, not a hangover."

"_Loosen up _already!"

"How dare you? I'm perfectly loose."

"You're about as loose as someone locked in the Bastille. I swear to god, sometimes the stick up your -"

Before the conversation could get any more sidetracked, the Les Amis were interrupted by the sound of a door slamming, and then a bunch of hurried footsteps.

Louison could be heard complaining, "You can't go in there-", and then the door to the backroom flew open.

Marius, followed by a loudly protesting Courfeyrac, stormed into the room, nostrils flaring like an angry bull. He faltered for a moment, upon seeing their stoic leader, the smart lawyer-man, the old bald guy and the cynical drunkard taking a footbath together. He then – to his credit – quickly regained his angry composure.

"Pontmercy!" cried Bossuet, "Join us!"

Courfeyrac stared at the four men in disbelief.

"What are you doing?!"

"Taking", Enjolras moaned loudly, rubbing his tired eyes, "a footbath…" he then surveyed Marius's angry face with cold detachment, "at least… we were."

"A footbath?" Courfeyrac repeated, "On the dawn of your revolution?"

"It was Jolllly's idea!" 'Ferre protested.

Courfeyrac turned to Joly, palms open in question.

The hypochondriac shrugged. "They were all looking terrible. Especially Capital R -"

"Nyethank-you", Grantaire slurred from his position – half asleep and drooling on Enjolras' shoulder (much to the latter's annoyance).

"_And _Enjolras had a panic attack a few hours ago", Joly added.

"Oh, that's ridiculous!" the leader protested.

"Is that true?"

"… More or less", he mumbled in a rare moment of sheepishness, and then louder, "But Jolllly's way over reacting."

"I am not!" the doctor-in-training cried, "He was having a full of rave at me! Screaming and shrieking about Kings and legislations and barricades."

"Isn't that what he always does?" mumbled Grantaire just a little too loudly.

"Enough!" cried Enjolras over the argument that broke out, raising his hands. He then calmed down, waiting for the water in his foot trough to stop sloshing, and then stared at Marius in confusion.

"What's the matter with him?"

Marius – who had been standing silently with his fists clenched at his sides, face red – glared Enjolras and the others down like they were Louis-Phillepe and not his friends.

The others exchanged worried glances.

"What… _is _the matter with him?"

Courfeyrac looks down at his shoes, mumbling something.

"Speak up man!" 'Ferre cried.

"… We got in a fight."

"A fight?"

"About politics."

Enjolras perked up at that – like the word was a trigger. "Politics?"

"Yeah… I told him you guys were Republicans."

"What of it?"

Courfeyrac leaned towards Enjolras and the other three and whispered, barely audible, "He told be he was a democrat."

"A _Democrat?_"

"A Democrat-Bonapartist."

The look that flashed across the leader's face was icy enough to drain any heat from his bath water – no matter what suggestive comments Grantaire made.

"The grey hue of a reassured rat."

"I know", Courfeyrac hissed, "That's what I said. But he still won't listen."

"Why not?"

"He wants to pitch his argument."

"…"

"Like. Right now."

"To the Les Amis?"

"To _you_."

"Why me?"

"… I might have… sort of told him… That you… uhm… despise Napoleon with every fibre of your being."

Enjolras groaned, as did 'Ferre and Bossuet. Grantaire only laughed, taking a long swig of absinthe.

"And I thought I was going to get a day off…" he sighed and then, turning to Marius and waving him on, "Go ahead, little boy."

Marius nodded slightly manically and then strode towards the map pinned on Musain's wall.

"Corsica", he began, "An island that has rendered France very great…"

What followed was a good half hour of meaningless trollope.

A good half of it was just Marius going on about his unrequited love of Napoleon, another quarter how much Napoleon loved the people, and another of him running around the room re-enacting Waterloo.

Around half way through the last quarter Grantaire cheered him as he jumped of a table and then proceeded to shower himself with rhum.

At the end of the rant, Marius turned to the four men and their foot troughs, and said – in regard of Napoleon/Corsica/France's empire: "What greater thing is there?!"

"To be free", 'Ferre murmured, very quietly but just loud enough for Marius to hear.

The boy did, indeed, hear – and let's just say the earnestness and truth in those three words was enough to knock the little fan-boy of his high pedestal.

He stood there, struck dumb, as 'Ferre, Grantaire, Joly, Bossuet, Jehan, Feuilly, Courfeyrac and Bahorel shuffled silently – and very awkwardly – from the room.

Only Enjolras and the Bonapartist remained.

"Smack-down", Feuilly sang under his breath, and Bahorel giggled.

With a grave look, 'Ferre began to sing:

"_Si Cesar m'avait donne la glorie et la guerre/Et qu'il me fallait quitter l'amour de ma mere/Je dirias au grand Caesar: reprends ton sceptre en ton char/J'aime mieux me mere o gue!_"

A slight smile tugged at the corners of his lips when he heard Marius murmur, zombie-like in his confusion: "My… my mother? -"

And then Enjolras return, with no doubt a sharp glare.

"My mother is the republic."

'Ferre grinned and ruffled Joly's hair as he made his way down the corridor.

_Smack-down! _

**Right. So that was my attempt at trying to make one of the best smack-downs of literary history just a little funnier (i.e. footbath). I promise I'll try not to write any more Les Amis themed episodes. The next one will be about Inspector Javert: what if, at some point between stalking JVJ and arriving in M-sur-M, the mean Inspector had a **_**girlfriend? **_**'Cause all an insane, semi-suicidal, murderous, one-track-minded, ugly, workaholic policemen needs is some TLC. **


End file.
